Friday night
Agatha and I went to Guapo’s last night for reasons we never really figured out, though when it comes to frat parties thrown at shitty Mexican restaurants, no one needs a reason. I was supersaturated with vodka and beer and Red Bull and nicotine, and I remember nothing except girls in those awful black stretch pants, Top 40 hip-hop that is somehow mainstream yet simultaneously obscure, flirty boys in fraternities, my face in Krisy’s breasts, neon green wristbands, No Smoking signs that were dutifully ignored, some cute closeted homo opening a tab on Daddy's gold AmEx, a thrilling paranoia of police and narcs and underage drinking citations, this skinny fag who wouldn’t stop staring, my right hand holding a Red Bull and a lit cigarette, my left hand shaking and touching and gesturing, looking super hip and super friendly and approachable, talk of Saturday night plans and spring break plans but not summer plans, my I Live to Party shirt that hugged my chest and stretched tight across my nipple ring, and I’d raise my arms and consciously flash a sliver of stomach, toned and tanned, and then there was the staircase, which led me down towards the street, and the cold air stung and I was both relieved and surprised to have remembered my coat.
The New York Times printed a very informative 
Jordan Stephens is an eighth-grader at Huntsville Middle School, and he's got 
From 
After four days of violent coughing spells and overenthusiastic phlegm production, I have finally surrendered personal autonomy to the viral infection of my upper respiratory tract. For shame! The taste of defeat – and 
Midway through this morning’s brunch – the purpose of which was not necessarily to eat, but to recover from last night’s shame – 
At the start of the single’s spastic string accompaniment, the viewer boards a sexed-up passenger jet (Virgin Atlantic it ain’t) to find Stewardess Spears shaking her uniformed ass in coach class. Our heroine proceeds to lure an enamored passenger to the plane’s cramped bathroom, where she retrieves a presumably poisonous vial of liquid (but not without enrolling in the Mile High Club first). After three minutes and 21 seconds of James Bond-ish antics, Britney envenoms her ill-fated ex-boyfriend – essentially a more handsome, less ghetto, de-afroed version of Justin Timberlake. It’s a great plot. Seriously!
It has come to my attention from a reliable (albeit reticent) source that my dorm room – as well as that of 
Like a young coed’s cry of “Rape!” after a date with a sexually presumptuous fraternity boy, Thursday’s drunken post was melodramatic, chemically provoked, and gives no legitimate cause for alarm. If the volume of sympathetic e-mails in my Inbox is any indication, I had a lot of you worried. Sorry for the false alarm.
Oh, what better way to start the New Year than by drunk-dialing my father at midnight and extending to him a 30-second slur of incoherent well-wishes! If only I could remember what I said – perhaps I should ask my dad, who at the time was inexplicably sober and surely aware of my inebriated state. As misfortunate would have it, however, the following morning brought a host of alternate matters to tend to, such as the pile of vomit I graciously left on 
